I like to imagine a society
Which would erect such grand monuments
Only after the eradication of
Poverty
Inequity
Subjugation
Though I rather imagine such a society
Would have little interest
In erecting such grand monuments
Perhaps such a society
Would be too busy building
On its commitment to
Love
Compassion
Generosity
There streams and rivers
Come to rest
Display the sorrows
Which some detest
“Wait for the facts
You can’t protest!”
What have we
But video
And patterns written
Long ago
To actions spoken
Our words will out
If some won’t listen
Justice shouts
Bishops under Cardinals
Princes of the capital
Too all manner of celebrity
Still I prefer simplicity
Whose condition leaves them most to gain
While every pittance rendered unto greedy hand
Far too much where hope of sustenance is lain
Yet they, it ever seems, offer most without demand
It’s none of these I see today
By price of entry held at bay
Once was the time when pews were filled
By those allowed the least of say
But easily opened
From the inside
If you would let me in
Their darkest hour
To bed confined
For none the power
To stall the march of death’s decline
And so alone
Souls pass away
While not a hand
Is offered they
But latex glove
The touch at end of earthly stay
It was impossible to know
If her composure reflected disoriented shock
Or disdain for the physical danger
She had not yet entirely escaped
Until she let the hem fall down her thigh
Turned her attention toward her destination
Determined steps splashed a path
In a straight line through flotillas of shattered debris
Which seemed to have drifted in a pattern
Intended to allow her unobstructed exit
Books, papers, and various other shards of detritus
Drifted in the eddies of unsettled water
Which she cleaved like a great ship through choppy seas
In countenance and action
She exhibited a formidable and resolute presence
Like the war film fantasy of the battalion commander
Who leads his troops through a barrage
Of bullets and shrapnel
Upright, undeterred, intent not on the enemy
But the objective beyond their defensive lines
The prophet, Sullivan, preached
Writing the gospel of
Purpose Informs Art
On landscapes and city streets
Ah, sighs Calatrava
And erects his Mona Lisa smile
Its contrarian pulse
The blood flowing through Valencia’s veins
As form takes flight
With function on its wing
I revel in dreamy whimsy
With purpose in the wake
